A Bedtime Story: Lumber, Nails, And Change

A bedtime story about a treehouse built for children who eventually stopped climbing up. Written in 2002, when digital cameras were beginning to replace film and the ground felt uncertain beneath my feet, this is a story about the things we build, the things we lose, and the new designs we can't yet see. If you're navigating your own version of change tonight — something shifting around you that you didn't choose — come rest here for a few minutes. You may find the uncertainty more familiar than you think.

Transcript

Lumber, Nails, And change. This is a story about change. I wrote it in 2002. At that point, I was about 25 years into my career as a freelance cinematographer, 25 years never quite knowing where or when the next job would appear. Around 2002, Digital movie cameras were becoming a reality, And with that came a whole new kind of uncertainty, Not just about the work, But about my place in it. I was beginning to wonder, Would the craft that I had spent so long learning still be valued with this technological change? Sound familiar? So with all of that going on, Here's what I wrote. Seven years ago, I was the camera operator on Jack, A Robin Williams comedy. We shot Jack in the small town of Ross, Which is north of San Francisco, And it was one of those rare jobs where I could bring my family. My son was four, And my daughter 10 years old. We were able to enroll them in the local elementary school, Which happened to be just yards from one of our main locations. My wife, Michelle, Was in heaven, Living in Marin County, And it was a great adventure for my kids. Several scenes in Jack took place in a treehouse created by the famous production designer Dean Tavaleras. The treehouse was amazing. The dream of any kid, This treehouse had four levels connected by a spiraling staircase, And it was set in a gigantic living redwood tree. When filming was completed, We came home from location, And I brought with me the inspiration to build a treehouse for my kids. Now, The only tree we had was a pepper tree in the front yard. I sketched out a couple of ideas and showed them to Michelle. She looked them over and said, Go ahead, But you can't drive nails into the tree, And I don't want unsightly pilings extending down into the lawn. That gave me pause. I mean, How was I going to safely attach the house to the tree? After some deliberation, I decided to start by building the eight-foot by eight-foot floor out of two sheets of plywood. Each sheet was notched to fit around the trunk, And then I joined them together, Making the floor. Next, I attached cable to the four corners of the floor, Looped the cable up and over higher branches, Thus creating a suspension floor. A ladder, Secured to the ground and attached to one side of the floor, Added the last bit of support. From there, I put up walls attached to the floor and added a small door at the top of the ladder. The neighbors were impressed. They asked me, How did you come up with the cable suspension idea? I explained that working with grips on film sets had taught me a few things. Yes, I said, If you go to the dictionary, You'll see in the description under grip, Suspends and secures things in unusual places. Over the years, Our treehouse served its purpose, A refuge for the kids. It also became a bug museum, A junk food den, And a canvas for the kids to spray paint and create their own graffiti. One June afternoon, Two adults and three kids joined me in the playhouse to watch the Lakers playoff game on a portable TV set. Our treehouse became a landmark, A navigational tool. Yeah, When you see the place with the treehouse in front, Turn right. However, The sad fact is that over the last couple of years, Fewer and fewer people venture up the ladder. It seems only toddlers in the neighborhood with lawsuit emblazoned on their little foreheads use it anymore. About three months ago, I was between jobs and Michelle said it was time to take the treehouse down. I resisted. She insisted. I delayed. She pointed out that I'd been unemployed for six weeks and it was time to get some things done around the house. I mumbled something about later. She threatened divorce. Yesterday, I took down the treehouse. Three days of construction, Putting it up, Took six hours to demolish. It was fascinating to compare the flexibility and grace of my body taking it down with the body that seven years ago put it up. I really struggled to find joy in the process. A part of me wanted never to say goodbye to the lumber and nails that symbolized youth and retreat, A phase in my life when my kids worshipped me unconditionally, When my parents would visit or we'd have a birthday party underneath the treehouse as the kids played. But time is merciless. My daughter now drives herself to work. My son leads a teenager's life, Often apart from mine. Meanwhile, My only surviving parent grows increasingly frail and reliant on me. Add uncertainty, That damned, Annoying constant in my life, And uncomfortable questions start to come up. When I go back to work, Will it be a struggle to get my rate of pay? Will I be using a new electronic camera that lessens my value because I'm no longer the one who sees it first? Will I, Once again, Have to leave my family and home to make a living? Change sucks. Not knowing what the change will be increases the suck value exponentially. I think I need to build another treehouse. The design of which I can't quite put my finger on. One that probably doesn't involve plywood and nails, But satisfies the needs of creation, Sanctuary, Adventure. I'll let you know when I've come up with a design. I may have to consult a gaffer on this one. So, That was 2002. The new treehouse I was searching for turned out to be these words you're hearing. Teaching, Storytelling, Guiding others inward so their love might change the world. I sure didn't see that coming. And yet, I think a part of me knew. Because I ended the story with a little quip about consulting with a gaffer. The gaffer is the crew member in charge of light. If you're lying there with your own version of uncertainty tonight, The things changing around you that you didn't choose, I encourage you to just be okay with that. Without judgment. Your tree is still standing. The design will come. How about setting a bedtime intention? Something for your creativity and your higher power to work on while you sleep? It might go something like this. My intention as I sleep is to be open to receiving guidance and taking the next step toward my unique design for this life. Sleep well. Good night.